Seth

The bell chimes as I open the door, and Tristan lifts his head from the computer to greet me.
"Hey, man. All good?"
"All good," I reply, walking toward my workstation.

Tristan Cox was one of my few friends outside of Thorne and Martinez. My time in the Marines and my role as an interrogator left marks I could only deal with when I was tattooing. Raffi had been my guinea pig while I was learning, and Tristan had taught me the basics when I was still enlisted. Whenever I was on leave, I ended up coming here, exorcising what I'd seen and done through art and...

"Great, because guess who has an appointment today," his mocking tone pulls me from my thoughts and makes me turn to see him rounding the reception desk with a smug smile. "Your biggest fan."
"Who?"
"You know, your not-so-secret admirer."
"What does she want this time?" I ask, already knowing who he's talking about.

I was working when she came with a friend who was getting a piercing. It was her first time at the studio. But the whole time she was here, I could feel her gaze on me, heavy and lingering. Since then, the redhead had been coming every few months to get a small, delicate tattoo.

"Not sure. She just called to book and insisted it had to be with you."
"And you didn’t bother to ask what it was?"
"Does it matter?" He shrugs. "As long as you’re the artist, she doesn’t care about the price."
"I better start setting up then," I reply.

I check my phone to see if Brooke or Ethan messaged. I know how important it is for her to get out of the house—I’ve been encouraging her for weeks—but knowing she’s not safe at home makes me nervous, anxious. Nothing will happen, I reassure myself. Ethan is good. Brooke is safe. She won’t let her guard down.

I go back to sanitizing the chair, focusing on the physical task and trying to block out all the chaotic scenarios my mind insists on conjuring. When I finish prepping the tattoo machine, I hear the bell on the door. The redhead walks in, and as if her eyes were trained, she finds me in the very next second, flashing a sensual smile and walking toward me, completely ignoring Tristan.

"Hey Seth, long time," she greets, touching my arm with far more intimacy than she should.

I pull away slightly.
"Hey. Yeah, I took a few months off. What do you want to get done today?" I ask, motioning to the chair.

She sits down and pulls her phone from her pocket, turning it to show me her choice.
"Where are you getting it?"

Her cheeks flush, and she looks away before answering.
"On my butt, right side."
"Okay. You can send it to the studio’s WhatsApp so Tristan can print it and I can do the stencil, or would you rather I draw it?"
"I’ll send it."

I get up to grab the printout and prepare the materials. When I come back, she’s already lying on her stomach in the chair.
"Can you show me exactly where you want the design?"

She turns with a smile and slides her cotton shorts almost completely off, way more than necessary for a tattoo that size.
"Right here," she indicates with her finger.
"Alright." I put on gloves, transfer the stencil onto her skin, and grab the mirror so she can check if it’s placed how she wants. "Like this?"

She nods.
"You want it in these same colors, right?"
"Yes, I love that shade of blue."
"Okay. Try to relax and let me know if it hurts."

I test the machine a few times, the comforting buzz filling the air and instantly relaxing my muscles. I pull her shorts up further, leaving only the area I need exposed, and begin outlining the design.

The redhead seems to relax under my touch, but stays still while I focus on tracing the lines. Seeing the blood rise from her skin feeds a dark part of me, a part that craves pain, violence, and destruction. It’s not enough to satisfy it, like giving kibble to a lion. It won’t starve, but it’s not full either.

And that’s why I love tattooing. Because I *need* to tattoo.

People react differently, of course. Some suffer every second under the needle, some relax and nearly fall asleep, and then there are people like the redhead, who seem to enjoy it.

I’m already filling in the color when my portable steel tray starts vibrating. I glance over and see Ethan’s name on my phone screen. In an instant, I turn off the machine, remove my glove, and answer the call. I barely register my client’s complaints.

Because as soon as the call connects, I hear Olivia’s desperate voice calling for Brooke, and my blood runs cold. I press the phone to my ear, trying to understand what’s going on.
"Ethan!" I bark when he doesn’t seem to notice I’ve picked up.
"Seth, Brooke was fine one second, and the next she ran off through the mall and locked herself in a fitting room—" that’s when I hear her sobs. I don’t even listen to the rest of what he’s saying. It doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters.

Brooke is crying.
"Where are you?" I ask, ripping off the other glove. He names the mall, and I almost sigh in relief—it’s only five blocks from here.
"Tristan, I need you to cover for me, I have to go!" I shout, already running. "I’m coming, Ethan, send me the store name," I order before hanging up.

I pass my car parked outside the studio and don’t even waste time grabbing the keys or considering driving. Dealing with traffic and parking would take too long. Brooke needs me, and every second I delay is one more second she’s suffering.

I curse every car that crosses the street, making me wait, but as soon as there’s a break, I bolt across. Horns blare, but I ignore them, thankful for all the nighttime runs that prepared me for this moment. I’m nearly at the mall when I check my phone and see Ethan’s message.

**Ethan Hart: Abercrombie & Fitch, second floor.**

I know the store and race up the stairs. I can still hear Brooke’s sobs in my head, the agonizing soundtrack to each of my steps. It’s not hard to locate the fitting rooms—there’s a small crowd gathered outside. A woman I assume is a store employee is talking to Ethan as I pass by. Olivia is crouched outside one of the stalls, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Brooke, please, talk to me," the brunette says to the door, but the only response is the continuous sobbing.

I touch her shoulder, drawing her attention—she hadn’t even noticed I was there. Her shoulders relax, and she sighs, nodding and getting up, hugging herself and looking nervously at the door.

"Bee, it’s me. Open the door," I ask.

Brooke doesn’t seem to hear me, and my anxiety doubles. I want to break down the door and pull her out, but I don’t know what nightmare she’s trapped in—I can’t risk making it worse. I knock on the door, and the sobbing stops. The movement inside ceases, and I’m almost sure she’s holding her breath.

"Brooke, Bee, it’s me. Will you open the door for me?" I plead. I just need to hold her. My heart nearly leaps from my chest when I hear the lock click open.

I push the door and find the blonde on the floor, hugging her knees and rocking back and forth. Her face is hidden in her arms, her body shaking with a silent sob. Her pain radiates and feels like it’s pricking at my skin. If I could kill someone more than once, I’d enjoy destroying every person who ever hurt her over and over again.

I push all the rage aside before sitting in front of her.
"Bee?" I whisper, stroking her arm. "I’m here. You’re safe."

She lifts her face, makeup streaked down her cheeks tracing her tears. When her eyes meet mine, her crying intensifies, and she throws herself into my arms. I am her safe place. The realization knots my throat. Brooke curls up in my lap, and my arms wrap around her, holding her tightly as I murmur into her ear.
"You’re safe, I’m here," I repeat, kissing the top of her head. One of her hands clutches the fabric of my shirt. With every shudder of her body, I hold her tighter.
"Nothing can happen to you, my love. It’s okay. I’m here."

I have no idea how long we stay there, but I never stop reassuring her or stroking her arms, her back. Little by little, Brooke begins to calm, her sobs gradually fading until they stop completely. My girlfriend stays silent in my arms for so long I almost think she’s fallen asleep when she finally speaks in a hoarse voice.
"Home. I want to go home."